


Help Me Out

by ChessapeakeRipper



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Freeform, Implied Will/Hannibal, M/M, encephalitis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:38:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3340484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChessapeakeRipper/pseuds/ChessapeakeRipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Help me…Please” was all Will muttered before his eyes rolled back into their sockets and his body convulsed, God’s strings pulling him in multiple directions. </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help Me Out

**Author's Note:**

> This was a relatively quick piece based on Low Roar's song 'Help Me' I recommend listening to it whilst you read the fic.  
> I thought the song sounded Hannigrammy and so this was born. 
> 
> Comments, Critiques and Kudos are all appreciated.

The first thing Hannibal Lecter noticed about Will Graham was that sickly sweet smell. 

Shaking violently, the FBI Profiler blundered into the office with a sense of desperation and in-coordination that comes with the encephalitis circling his brain. It was hunting for all of his spatial reasoning and was wearing him thin. Psychiatry would do nothing to help him now, he was beyond weak attempts at coping mechanisms, and Hannibal knew it would not be long until Will was at his mercy. 

As Hannibal lead Will to one of the chairs in the centre of the room, he could feel the clamminess of his skin, the sweat beading in his hair and knew how dry his mouth would be, unused throat clenching to speak through the burning he would feel coursing his body. 

“Help me…Please” was all Will muttered before his eyes rolled back into their sockets and his body convulsed, God’s strings pulling him in multiple directions. His tongue slipped from his mouth and his spine curled off of the chair. Before he could fall, Hannibal lifted him onto the floor, laid a cushion under his hot nectar-filled head and sat calmly by him, waiting for the worse to pass. 

_We built a house on sacred ground_

Will had approximately five seconds of lucid thought before his eyes showed their whites and he lost all control of his body. Five seconds is a long time to a dying man. 

He thought of the house of cards he’d built with Hannibal, the meticulous construction, inspiring trust and protection in this sacred office of darkness. There was no one else he would turn to, no one else he would feel comfortable with. There was a hotness in his head and Will couldn't work out if Hannibal had made him that way. 

He’d always been as calm as he could with Hannibal, never lost it like this. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth and his throat felt twisted. His madness was spreading-did he give it to Hannibal or did Hannibal give it to him? He could feel the cards burning and that questioning of trust being planted- _folie á deux_ his brain screamed and he fought the urge to black out. 

_Cold sweats and couches, this was the worst of my fears_

Hannibal was talking to him, he just knew he was. 

His voice could cut through all silences, slice open any shame and wickedness and yet it was now as vague as the lights out in the field at night. He was lost to the waters, his body drenched in sweat, he was drowning now.

The cold man in a polite wrapper didn't stop talking to him, his voice the only tether as Will drifted further and further afield into the foggy seas of madness. 

_Bones made of Glass, I'm starving_

Will had been put into an IC unit, as Hannibal predicted. He was unable to see him until six days after his admission. He was stable, but that did not mean he was strong. 

Hannibal walked into the room with a small smile, Will’s sleeping figure curving into the bed like a shell on the beach-all tight lines and drawn mouth. The tension he held was brittle, all for Hannibal’s taking. To shatter Will would be a beautiful concept, one that was slowly coming into fruition. He sat on a chair by the window, gazing out into the cold until Will’s breathing informed him of his awakening. 

Will found himself staring into Maroon eyes that held a deep, unsatisfied hunger. He was suspicious, and thankful-a combination he couldn't quite piece together. Those eyes were distracting, so he shut his own. 

He thought on the building they had erected together, both extending the foundations of a house within his mind, load bearing walls taking strain upon strain and now a roof had been placed over it all-foreboding and comforting in its consequences. The familiar flames that had coloured the walls so vibrantly were fading, and Will found their loss was starting to cause the structure to crumble piece by piece. 

Even as Hannibal moved closer to squeeze his weak hand in comfort, he knew that this was not to last. He could think clearer than he ever had before. He shivered at Hannibal’s gaze, the loss reflected back at him. 

_For someone to fill my blood, my skin_

Will had broken down the shaking, shuddering bridges the encephalitis had built, as Hannibal expected. He was staring at a blank man, a canvas that burnt so brilliantly was now a husk-with a resilience to being remoulded into something more beautiful than even he, the artist could imagine. 

Hannibal blinked as a flood of loneliness washed over him, he nearly gasped-clutching Will’s hand for what he presumed was support. 

He wanted all of Will, he wanted him like he had wanted things to be different on that cold winter’s day.

He wanted to consume Will in a way more intimate and intense than he could put words to. So he kissed Will’s cold, earthy hand and revelled in the profiler’s detached expression. 

_What’s left to talk about?_

Will heard the click of his own throat when he swallowed. Soft lips pressed to his cold skin found him speaking clearly for what felt like the first time in years. 

“Where do we go from here? What is left?”

Hannibal reclined, hand still loosely gripped in his own. His head cocked to one side, considering the question with a control that even Will could see was fraying. 

He cleared his throat ever so slightly, Hannibal’s version of being tentative. 

The next statement was simple, and pure in its truth. 

“Us.”


End file.
